American - Writer | October 15, 1830 - August 12, 1885
On the king's gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They call'd him dead; And made his eldest son, one day, Slave in his father's stead.
Helen Hunt Jackson
FatherSonDayKingOne DayGray
Words are less needful to sorrow than to joy.
SadWordsJoySorrowThanLess
Great loves, to the last, have pulses red; All great loves that have ever died dropped dead.
GreatRedDeadLastEverDropped
But all lost things are in the angels' keeping, Love; No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, Love; The years of Heaven with all earth's little pain Make Good Together there we can begin again, In babyhood.
LoveGoodTogetherPastPainHeaven
O month when they who love must love and wed.
LoveWeddingMonthMustWhoWed
When the baby dies, On every side Rose stranger's voices, hard and harsh and loud. The baby was not wrapped in any shroud. The mother made no sound. Her head was bowed That men's eyes might not see Her misery.
MotherEyesMenBabyRoseSee
There cannot be found in the animal kingdom a bat, or any other creature, so blind in its own range of circumstance and connection, as the greater majority of human beings are in the bosoms of their families.
AnimalBlindConnectionHumanOwn
As soon as I began, it seemed impossible to write fast enough - I wrote faster than I would write a letter - two thousand to three thousand words in a morning, and I cannot help it.
MorningWordsImpossibleEnoughHelp
There is nothing so skillful in its own defense as imperious pride.
PrideNothingOwnDefenseSkillful
If I could write a story that would do for the Indian one-hundredth part what 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' did for the Negro, I would be thankful the rest of my life.
LifeThankfulRestStoryMy Life
Copyright © 2024 QuotesDict Helen Hunt Jackson quotes